Por Suerte O Por Desgracia
by tasteofhysteria
Summary: A series of drabbles about the Caribbean colonies, mainly from Borikén's point of view.
1. Chapter 1

Puerto Rico always heard them. Those whispers that were supposed to be quiet and hushed behind raised hands and exchanged glances. After all, what kind of 13 year old boy was made to work heavy labour in the fields? He was obviously some kind of troublemaker (he had grinned at that) and clearly too small to be anything but a burden.

He'd heard them say it and he had scowled darkly at them, daring them to speak the words to his face. España just wandered the rows of sugar cane with a cold but carefree smile and gazed down at him expectantly.

"Emmanuel, if you just stand there glaring at me instead of working, you'll only be proving them right," he told Guey mockingly. "So show them how strong you think you are."

Guey examined España from head to well-shod toe. The bastard didn't even have the decency to sweat when the rest of them were half-drowning in it. And so it had seemed like a good idea to spit at the Spaniard and maybe landing face-first in the dust with a boot digging into his spine wasn't ideal, but it gave him some satisfaction to see that arí lose his cool.

He'd made sure he loaded the next wagon by himself.


	2. Chapter 2

He was of two (three, if he wanted to be perfectly honest but nobody wants to be _perfectly honest_ when you have the Christian God staring down at you all day) warring states of thought.

It was the end of the long day working and of course it was entirely possible that people wanted to shuck off their sweat-saturated clothing as soon as possible. Borikén himself didn't even wait until he was in the privacy of his own "home" to pull off his shirt. And if a man wanted to pull off his shirt in front of God and everybody, that was fine.

At the same time, everything in him protested seeing Cuba's bared back, spine stretching and shoulder blades shifting beneath dark skin. Because this was something he wasn't supposed to see, and the bishops had said something about this once—lust and hellfire and plain human_decency_.

But he couldn't look away either and he couldn't help marking where Caobana ended and Cuba began, from longer legs to narrow hips, proud back into slowly broadening shoulders. He also wondered, just then, if he had known her as well as he thought he did. After all, the questioning sideways glance over Cuba's uncovered shoulder and the sardonic lift to his eyebrow weren't familiar because they weren't…things Caobana would have done.

Ironically, Caobana also had never learnt feminine modesty. So maybe that had stayed the same.

Borikén smiled wryly to himself and stripped his own shirt off to hide the burning in his cheeks.

There was nothing sacred about a man's body anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

It had gotten strangely easy over the years to just paste on a pleasant expression and pretend that you were enjoying yourself, no matter what kind of literal shit you had to muck through to get from point A to point B with amount of sugar cane C.

It kind of felt exactly like this.

He let the smile freeze on his face, as if he wasn't_bothered_ by Haiti's sudden presence in what was supposed to be the space that he shared with Caoba—Cuba alone. He could've forgiven an invasion if it had stopped there because now they were all each other had and _goddamn it._ But Haiti was never good at staying in his boundaries or maybe he was but just not when Borikén was around.

He just had to fucking push everything to Borikén's limit of patience and _damn_ Caoba—_Cuba_ for blinking and smiling at the bastard like it was normal.

…what if it was normal?

Yeah, it really felt like trudging his way through a quagmire of horseshit.

The pleasantries went about and he hardly remembered giving them, though he did remember that smug glance Haiti shot him and it burned underneath his skin like poison. Time passed and the moon rose higher in the sky and finally,_finally_ Hati was getting up to leave.

Borikén stared down at his hands clenched in the fabric over his thighs as Haiti stood and stretched expansively, like he was trying to appear more of a man than his frame allowed. The Haitian feigned a heavy grunt and rolled his shoulders to ease away false pain. He then inhaled deeply and grinned at Cuba and it was pissing Borikén off.

"Be safe on your way back," Cuba said, "the overseers are drinking tonight."

"I'll be fine," Haiti waved a hand dismissively and smirked, "I'm quick on my feet and they know that I'm always, y'know. _Around_."

His smirk grew infinitesimally when Borikén's wide-eyed look of shock shot up to meet his.

Borikén forced his hands to unclench, splaying themselves open and claw-like over his knees as he turned that Pleasant Smile on Haiti and offered to walk back with him,_just in case_.

Both Haiti and Cuba stared at him in surprise before Cuba gave him an approving smile and he instantly felt guilty for his impure motives. Haiti glanced uncertainly between the two of them before agreeing with a superior sneer and a swagger to his step as he pushed his way past Borikén to the humid night air outside.


	4. Chapter 4

Maybe he only noticed because he was older and more experienced. It had just sort of occurred to him one day that España spent more time posturing and threatening than actually getting anything done. There were times, though, when certain dark moods made his threats very real.

"Well?" España asked him in a falsely pleasant voice. "What do you think?"

Borikén glanced up at him balefully, rolling a shoulder experimentally and grimacing when it made the roughly-made rope cut into his wrists harshly. He let his head fall against the bed post in irritation and stared up at the raftered ceiling, the wood stained with salty sea air and swollen with moisture.

"I _think_," he drawled slowly, "that I'm getting pretty sick of you tying me up just to get your way."

"I would rather not tie you up, Emmanuel," España replied calmly as he pulled off his gloves, "it's a waste of good rope."

"Is there any other criticism you wanted to make while you have me here?" Guey paused for a moment and smirked at the other man._"Papá?"_

"A waste of rope and a waste of space," España murmured. He glanced at Guey with a calculating expression, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. After a moment, he gave a short laugh in the back of his throat and smiled. "You know, short hair suits you. It's much better than that savage nest you had before."

"It's not like I _asked_ for it to be cut," Guey spat back. España blinked and his smile grew a little wider.

"Yo sé, yo sé," he cooed, crouching in front of his captive and reaching out to pat his cheek condescendingly, "I just give and give and give. God will surely reward me for being so generous, don't you think?"

"I think you're going to Hell."

España tsked and rolled his eyes heavenward as if to ask for patience. He stood with a sigh and tugged at his ornate uniform until all the creases and wrinkles fell flat and crisp.

"You know, back in my lands, there are only two types of people who have their hair cut so short," España said in a mild voice. Guey stared up at him through his lowered lashes, wanting to roll his eyes and sigh loudly, but knowing that _that tone of voice_ meant España's mood had gone sour and that his interruption would be seen as high insubordination and summarily punished.

"Those people are soldiers and convicts."

España stood in front of Guey once more, standing tall and rigid, backlit by the fading sunlight so that his features were thrown into shadow.

"So I'll ask you one more time what you think, Puerto Rico. Will you put on this uniform and be a soldier for the glory of España, or will you have me drag you to the beaches of Cuba anyway and have you shot like a convict until you wish you really could die?"

Guey opened his mouth to answer when the ship suddenly shuddered and tilted slightly to the side, shaking and buckling underfoot so that España stumbled against the desk and cursed loudly as several baubles and trinkets fell and shattered against the wooden planks.

"Damn," he swore, "how in the hell did that rebel trash get a cannon?"

"What—"

"Shut up," España hissed, throwing the uniform into his face and leaning over Guey to reach around the bed post and cut his hands free of the bindings. "Change into that _now_."

His tone brooked no argument. Guey quickly pulled on the uniform trousers, boots and undershirt as España stared out the window with slitted eyes, examining every inch of the beach with a discerning gaze, trying to guess where the next shot would come from.

Apparently he was wrong.

The ship shook again, more violently than before. Guey went sprawling as España clutched at the window sill to keep himself upright.

"_Mierda_," he heard the Spanish nation swear again. He was pulled to his feet and had his hands swiftly rebound behind his back. Guey was disoriented and felt as though the earth had permanently changed its axis to a sideways tilt as España pushed him through the doorway and down a long hallway. The air smelled fresher here, meaning they were close to the top deck.

Just as suddenly as he thought it, he was shoved through another doorway and greeted with blinding sunlight sinking slowly behind the horizon and absolute chaos as the crew scrambled about the deck, shouting orders and giving panicked prayers to God.

"Give me a boat," España roared over the din. Immediately a sailor appeared at his elbow and ushered him (and Guey as well, though he was being dragged rather like baggage) to a boat waiting to be lowered into the shallow water. A contingent of armed soldiers in blue tickingcloth uniforms trailed after them with uncertain looks at each other and filed into the boat after España had thrust Guey into it, letting him fall facefirst and stomach down into the bottom of it.

After that, España gave some kind of bracing rally speech as the boat was lowered into the water; Manny didn't bother to listen, more fascinated by how the wood absorbed the blood leaking from his nose. There was a faint splash and a clatter of wood against wood as oars were pulled out and the rowed for shore with a neophyte's inelegance and inexperience.

He grimaced when they finally landed on the beach, sliding forward on his stomach a bit so that his injured nose dragged against the planks. There was near silence as the soldiers clambered out of the boat, clutching their guns closely and starting at every noise. España himself carelessly dragged Guey out of the boat and let him flounder against the sand until he struggled into a graceless kneel that would allow him to regain his feet if needed.

España surveyed the beach through hooded eyes, slowly dragging his jade gaze over every leaf and grain of sand, watching. Waiting.

Some unknown signal had the Spaniard tensing and reaching for his gun, drawing it up and pointing it at the dense undergrowth. For a moment, nobody dared to breathe.

In the next moment, there was a torrent of gunfire ripping into the beach.

They had all started shouting to each other, bringing up their guns and loading them before rushing into the foliage to kill or die.

_…to kill or die._ It was a brief struggle to get back to his feet; his legs shook at the awkward position and his head pounded from the pain his nose caused. España was distracted, yelling orders to his men and firing at the men who spilled out of the undergrowth. It was an opportunity, Guey realized.

It was probably the only opportunity God would ever give him.

His legs propelled him forward before he even realized it, but suddenly he was shouldering past España and catching the Spaniard's wide-eyed expression of shock in his peripheral as he threw himself headlong at the line of rebels rushing towards them.

"Puerto Rico! Get back here!"

_Ignore him_, Guey told himself as he suddenly changed direction and avoided the line altogether, crashing through the thick vines and plants.

_"Emmanuel!"_

Just ignore him.


End file.
